


The thunder for the storm

by aceofreaders (Kickasscookieeater)



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (kinda), Andrew Minyard/Neil Josten long distance relationship, Andrew lives in Boston, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Discussions of Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Reunions, Gen, Graduation, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Canon, Reunions, Routine, Yearning, cause who doesn't secretly love those, meeting in airports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kickasscookieeater/pseuds/aceofreaders
Summary: Andrew has spent five years in Palmetto, four years entangled there with Neil Josten and his band of merry foxes.Andrew has spent four years breaking and rebuilding routines and patterns and thought processes. Four years sharing kisses and cigarettes and truths.Despite himself, he got used to it. He got used to his own pack, he got used to the other foxes, he got used to Neil Josten in the few ways it's possible to do so. And if pressed, hard, he could admit to himself that he's not sure what to do without any of those things.But nothing gold can stay, or whatever. Because now he has to leave.
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Aaron Minyard & Andrew Minyard, Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker (All For The Game), Andrew Minyard & David Wymack, Andrew Minyard & Renee Walker, Matt Boyd & Neil Josten, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Nicky Hemmick & Andrew Minyard
Comments: 21
Kudos: 266





	The thunder for the storm

**Author's Note:**

> Hey :) I started writing this in May, and it is now October. Don't even ask what happened in between, it's boring and unpleasant. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and that you stick around for more. And for anyone who has read something of mine before and left a kudo, or a comment, or a bookmark: I never know how to respond so I tend not to. But it means the absolute world to me. Thank you <3 
> 
> And thank you for reading.

The lights are flashing overhead. Bright and blue, purple, red, orange. The music is an earthquake and the air is filled with screamed lyrics and drunken excitement. Drinks are being spilled, shot gunned, nursed at the bar. People are everywhere, hands in hair and on waists and dipping low on belt loops.

Andrew is standing with Neil against a wall somewhere amongst it all and watching the parade.

Just another night at Eden’s.

Neil downs his third shot and looks at Andrew over the rim of his glass. He looks like liquor feels.

Fucking good.

Andrew has his own fingers in Neil’s belt loop, and he can feel every scratch of black denim as Neil shifts his weight towards him, his side now draped against the wall. Andrew can feel the heat of him even like this, even surrounded by strangers.

“Nicky is going to need carrying out of here,” Andrew says, taking a sip of his own water. Guess who’s the DD for tonight’s escapade. Joy.

“He’ll be fine. That’s just how he dances.”

Technically Neil is right. Nicky has always moved like it costs him no pride to do it, like the club and the whole world it sits within was built to be his stage. He’s also spotted them, waving at them like a lunatic even as his hips keep moving. And then he’s toppling over onto Aaron, who is always one step away from agitation and oh great now we’re yelling at each other.

“Yeah you were right, time to go,” Neil says, leaving Andrew with a roll of his eyes. And Andrew watches him dissolve into the lights and the bodies and he feels himself move to follow.

Except that’s not going to be an option much longer.

So Andrew stays, waits for Neil to gather the children. Waits to leave.

The lights overhead keep flashing.

\----

They pour through the door to the house in Columbia, a mass of sound.

“No you weren’t ‘pushed’, you fell on me because you’re a drunk mess," Aaron snaps.

“I am _not,_ I am tasteful amount of drunks. Drunk," Nicky replies. 

“Yeah, I rest my case.”

“Oh like you’re so sober!”

“Shut _up!”_

That would be Neil, from all the way in the kitchen already, probably about to put on an extremely ill-advised pot of coffee.

Nicky whines about how mean they all are and throws himself onto the couch. Aaron throws himself on the armchair and sulks.

Just another night after Eden’s.

Andrew just wants to go to bed because looking at them all, listening to the sound of them all existing in this house, as somehow become too hard.

He can smell coffee and four different kinds of cologne (Nicky wears a combination of two), he can see scratches on the bannister that he knows were their fault. He can remember every minute they’ve spent here.

He can remember every second, bad and good and ugly and different.

He just wants to go to bed. But when he does the bed sheets smell like himself. Like they’re his. So he lies there in the dark and waits for the sounds of the end of the night to finish.

Nicky is wishing everyone a goodnight, still clumsy with alcohol, Aaron is stomping up the stairs after him. Then he can hear the floor creak, the creak three steps from the bedroom door that says Neil is here.

He comes in quietly, closing the door slowly, throwing his overpriced clothes onto the ground and slipping into bed next to Andrew.

“I know you’re awake.”

“I know you do Einstein.”

Neil huffs and turns onto his side, Andrew’s arm already slipping underneath Neil's' pillow. It never seems to matter how dark the room is, Neil's eyes always stay crystal blue and bright. It never seems to matter how much time passes, Neil still hates them at least a little and Andrew never could.

They’re just staring at Andrew. Barely blinking. Just a flutter of lashes and bright bright blue and Andrew knows what’s he thinking. What he’s been thinking for weeks now.

Andrew moves closer and kisses him, just once, twice, three, four times. He swallows Neil’s sigh even as it shakes, holds his hand, falls asleep sharing his pillow.

Andrew is graduating soon.

* * *

“ – I trip, stumble, fumble into math class into your heart into, your soul, I hope –“

The looks on their faces are matching pictures of disgust and the hidden desire to bully just a little. Unless you’re looking at Andrew, then the picture is more or less missing altogether. The disgust does simmer beneath somewhere though.

“Someone, please, make him stop,” Nicky says, tired to his bones.

“It’s an open mic. There are no rules here,” Aaron’s voice as he says it is equally exhausted.

“Then God has abandoned us.”

“Technically, it’s an open-air poetry slam,” Neil says, voice dripping with disdain. Mean.

“God _why,_ why would you do this?!” Nicky whispers, throwing his hands in the air in a desperate plea to the heavens, and in fairness none of them knew this was happening today.

“- and I’ve been slammed, poetry slammed, slammed by the poetry of your eyes –“

Jesus.

The queue to the coffee stand moves ahead slowly and Neil’s hands twitch inside his hoodie pockets. His profile is softer today somehow, though it never loses that dangerous edge completely.

It’s a Tuesday. Neil was waiting outside his last class of the day, sat on the floor opposite the door reading Exy plays or something equally dull. Because it’s a Tuesday and that’s what Neil does on Tuesdays.

Andrew is both used to it and not. Because Neil always smiles when he sees him, just a small one, mostly in his eyes. He always rises to meet Andrew and he always links their fingers together. And there doesn’t seem to be a way to get used to those things.

They walked to the coffee stand together, only stopped to kiss once, met Nicky and Aaron at the coffee stand like every Tuesday.

And now they’re here. In the queue, gathering headaches and losing patience.

“Someone needs to tell him his mother was lying when she said he was special,” Nicky says under his breath, and Neil laughs a little. Still mean. Quieter even than usual.

If Andrew looks a little closer he can see something in Neil’s eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, and though they are never wholly good people, Neil is always worse when he can’t rest.

“Hey, can I get one black coffee and one vanilla latte?”

Oh they’re at the front of the queue now. The server is looking at Neil as he speaks like he’s made of broken glass and she doesn’t want to get cut.

Andrew doesn’t care for the way her eyes lingers on his scars. So he drops the money and tugs Neil away.

“Are we having a problem?” he asks him, pulled a little separate from the rest of the people waiting for their drinks.

“No, no I’m fine. Why? Are you?”

They are having a problem.

Neil leans closer to Andrew, like he does sometimes. Like he can’t help it.

“No, I was - ”

“One black coffee, and a vanilla latte!”

“That poem was for you Marianne, because I – I love you!”

Fuck.

They end up on their table, watching Marianne lightly reject the poet and sharing one croissant between three of them. Andrew sips his coffee, watches a young man cry, and thinks that ultimately, it is just another Tuesday. Neil is looking at them all with the closest thing to fondness his sharp features can muster, Nicky is collapsing in horror, Aaron is trying his hardest to pretend like he’s not laughing.

Tuesday.

And that night, alone in the dorm, Andrew rolls himself underneath Neil and he is kissed so warmly and so hungrily, touched so well. He holds Neil’s wrists and pulls him closer and closer still on top of Andrew and he never needs to say no.

Neil’s laughter is less mean in the morning.

* * *

They come tumbling into the building from the rain and trudge their way upstairs. Nicky hits the shower the second he reaches the dorms, flinging his hair around like a dog and Aaron follows right after to his room to change.

Neil beckons towards their room, still empty at this time of evening, and switches the light on.

It’s dark out there for May, grim and grey and spitting hot rain. They get changed, Andrew puts the kettle on, Neil grabs the towels, and they meet on the couch.

Neil puts on his stupid Exy re-runs, Andrew hands Neil his mug, and watches him from under his lashes as he watches Andrew, eyes catching on the towel in his hands as he rubs his hair dry.

As usual, Neil huffs in amusement at the state of Andrew’s hair after. As usual Andrew stares blankly back until he stops.

It’s just another rainy evening. They haven’t spoken since the parking lot outside and they haven’t needed to.

Because it’s just another rainy evening.

* * *

_< Hurry up _

_I can’t make this class go faster > _

_ < Hurry up _

Andrew is sitting on the grass, staring at a box of donuts.

_On my way >_

Wondering when Neil is going to get here.

It’s a Thursday and they do this a lot. Not so much when it’s cold but the sun is out and they have a quiet place to go. A place behind one of the art buildings, not too far from Neil’s first afternoon class full of people he hates. Andrew brings the food, Neil brings the bad attitude.

“Hey.”

Ah, there he is, flushed and standing over Andrew all lit up by the sun. Some kind of merciless god made of fire.

Except for the eyes. And the general air of angry boyishness.

Neil throws his bag and himself down onto the ground next to Andrew, opens the box, hands Andrew his maple glazed.

“They’re just so fucking stupid,” He says to no one, not even Andrew really.

Andrew sits and watches Neil in his contained and for now harmless rage, watches him eat his plain donut and lick the sugar off his thumb, watches the light in his eyes change to something calmer.

Wonders where Neil is going to go on Thursday afternoons when Andrew is gone.

Wonders where he himself is going to go.

Stops wondering.

“You’ve got maple on your face,” Neil says, thumb tilting Andrew’s chin up. He wipes it away and Andrew wants to be kissed, maybe.

And then Neil leans closer, close enough to feel his lashes, waits just the right amount of time and kisses him.

One long, slow, warm kiss like early summer heat. When he pulls away it’s just as slow. They eat in silence for ten more minutes.

And then -

“Okay, I have to go. I’ll see you later?”

Andrew says nothing.

Nodding, Neil says “Bye,” and climbs gracefully to his feet.

He walks backwards for a second, looking at Andrew like he needs to remember what he looks like sitting there in the grass.

Maybe he does.

Because there’s only one Thursday left.

* * *

“I know you have to go. I want you to. I’m just… scared I guess.”

“Scared of what?”

“Being alone again. I got kind of used to this.”

“You still have Coach, your captaincy.”

“But I won’t have any of _my_ Foxes left. I won’t have you.”

Andrew can’t bring himself to say it, but Neil doesn’t seem to need him too because he says quietly -

“It won’t be the same.”

“You are not going to be alone idiot,” Andrew says. Because he’s not.

Andrew is.

* * *

It reminds Andrew of their post-game parties. Anarchy, drinking, several pointed thumps from the floor below.

Matt is here, as he has been for the past week. Helping them pack. Helping Neil, Andrew thinks. When Andrew wasn’t around.

There’s a bass pumping from someone’s speaker, athletes Andrew doesn’t care about who are bold enough to brave the Exy floor, cheerleaders and one cheerleader in particular.

Andrew, standing in the kitchen as he is, was hoping to avoid this.

“Uh, hey.”

“Hello Katelyn.”

Times they have changed, but not by that much. Not by enough that he wants to be having whatever conversation this is going to be.

“Cool pre-graduation party…”

Jesus Christ.

“I just, I just wanted to say in case I didn’t see you tomorrow that I’m happy for you.”

“For what?”

He is not a good enough person to make this easy.

“For graduating. For getting a spot on a pro team. For – for fucking making it. Look what you’ve done here Andrew. Congratulations.”

Her eyes are wide and earnest, braver than he expects. She means it.

Every once in a while, only sometimes, Andrew can guess what Aaron might see in her.

But that could also be the two shots he’s had.

“Katie are you okay?”

And there he is, Aaron, pulling at Katelyn’s sleeve like a white knight, kissing her on the cheek and sneaking a glance at Andrew like he’s not sure how to look at him.

“Yeah I’m good,” she says, and she means that too. She smiles so brightly at Aaron it seems to blind him for a second, and he watches her as she goes with something soft on his face. And then he turns to Andrew. All that softness is gone.

“Um,” Aaron starts and stops.

They’re meant for each other.

“Andrew I –“

This is the thing. The twins Minyard haven’t exactly discussed what comes after tomorrow. Not really, not in so many words. 

Aaron lets himself and Andrew breathe for a second, before he looks him in the eye with the kind of determination he used to wear when he studied something that intimidated him.

“Andrew I’ll call you. We won’t…. we’ll still talk. Or I guess, we will if you answer.”

“I’ll answer.”

“Okay. Okay.” And he nods and then he’s gone.

He’s gone.

“Hey!”

And here he thought it would be quieter in the kitchen. But no.

Nicky is looking at Andrew with so much excitement, only a little drunk because ‘it’s a big day tomorrow oh my god!’, beaming full force.

“We’re graduating tomorrow!”

“How astute of you.”

“Don’t be so fucking grouchy,” Nicky says, laughing and happy. “Be excited Andrew! You made it!”

Sure. Made it through college. But now he has to make it through whatever nebulous thereafter that follows.

“Hey listen, I want you to know that you’ll always have me. Always.”

Nicky’s voice has changed. It’s softer, sincere, and honestly a little scared.

“Germany isn’t in another galaxy, you can still call me and I’m going to call you, we can visit each other whenever you want. Both of you. And Neil.”

Ah yes. Him. Andrew hasn’t been thinking about him tonight unless he has too. Another difficult thing. He wonders where he is.

Andrew takes a moment before he says it, because years have passed but some words still stutter in his head.

“We’re family,” he says.

It’s the best promise Andrew can give him right now.

Nicky’s shoulders slump and his face relaxes, like it’s all he needed to hear. Maybe that was all the promise he needed.

“Yes. Yes we are. Now go find your boytoy! Matt’s been awfully huggy with him tonight.”

“Don’t wink at me like that,” Andrew says with a roll of his eyes.

This has been the most exhausting party of his life.

He leaves Nicky laughing and wiping a tear away in the kitchen and into the throng of music and bass, Erik passing him on his way out.

Where is Neil?

Ah, there he is.

Talking to Kevin.

How interesting.

He makes his way through a crowd of cheerleaders and athletes, pushing closer and closer and closer and when did Kevin get here?

“When did you get here?”

It comes out a little more rushed then he meant it too and he knows they both notice because the shift in their faces is identical.

“Ten minutes ago. I wouldn’t miss it Andrew.”

The most exhausting party of his life.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Neil says. Andrew doesn’t look at him when he speaks. Can barely look at Kevin and all of his pride and his wary happiness. Difficult difficult things.

“I’m stunned you managed to pry yourself off the court,” he says in the end, because he’s so tired and the music around him is so loud and everyone is so excited and happy and there is so much sadness mixed into their smiles and the air is thick with other people’s emotions.

“There are more important things. Sometimes,” Kevin says, and he smirks when he says it and Neil grins at Kevin and then at Andrew and he’s still not looking directly at him.

Tired.

But there’s something else, something else in his chest that feels lighter and melancholy.

Kevin is here.

Because he wouldn’t miss this.

“Whoo! Kevin!”

And suddenly Matt is there and he’s squeezing Kevin around the ribs, spinning him in the air like a grumpy ragdoll.

“Hey.”

Neil.

He’s standing right next to Andrew. And he’s looking at him with eyes bluer than sky and brighter than neon and there’s a reason Andrew hasn’t been looking at him.

But oh well.

Oh well.

“Can I help you?” because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Neil doesn’t answer, just swallows his next breath and looks at Andrew. Looks at him looks at him looks at him. He has the feeling Neil hasn’t been thinking about him much tonight either. He has the feeling they’ve been avoiding the same sensation.

Neil shakes his head eventually, and they just stand there. Kevin comes to stand on Andrew’s other side, Erik on Neil’s, and they watch as Matt and Nicky dance, twin grins. As Nicky pulls Erik, laughing, onto the dance floor, as they kiss each other and celebrate returning to each other. He wonders what that feels like.

Maybe he’ll find out.

The music keeps playing and the night goes on.

* * *

“Andrew Joseph Minyard.”

That morning, in the earlier hours, Andrew was curled up on a beanbag chair with Neil. Neil’s eyes kept lingering on Andrew’s face, and Andrew was remembering the few weeks after Kevin and Matt graduated. How Neil took turns sticking close like glue or disappearing. How hard he took it each time someone left. How he adjusted after a while with his remaining Foxes and Andrew. Neil kissed him and Andrew found himself committing it all to memory on purpose.

He was acutely aware, in the early light of commencement day, that he was about to let two more of his own walk away. And that he was about to leave one behind.

Now, Andrew is alone and he is walking across the stage. And it doesn’t happen in slow motion, it doesn’t happen all at once, it just happens. He looks out across the sea of graduates, crying families, proud parents, and he cannot bring himself to regret not having any.

He looks out across the sea of graduates and finds Neil, standing up and grinning, Kevin and Matt beside him. Even Erik has stood to clap. It doesn’t seem to matter if they’re the only people standing for him. They don’t care. And in the bright sunlight, all dressed up in their suits, happy, they look like what the future must look like.

So Andrew shakes the hand offered to him, and walks. Because maybe he doesn’t care, but Nicky is waiting on the other side for him crying and Aaron is looking out at the world ahead of him dazed with relief and fear and joy.

Andrew Minyard graduates with his major in Criminal Justice on a Wednesday in May.

And when he finds himself surrounded by his screaming family, Kevin tossing his cap for him, Neil smiling next to him, it’s not the worst thing in the world.

\----

He’s standing in the Foxhole court.

It’s empty and quiet and still blisteringly orange.

He runs his fingers along the back of a seat, sits all the way up at the top of the stands. It all looks so much smaller from up here. It doesn’t look like five years of his life but it is. It is, and now those five years are done. Tomorrow, he packs up the car and goes. Tomorrow, Aaron flies away for medical school. Tomorrow, Nicky flies away to Germany with Erik.

Tomorrow.

But today, he’s looking out across the Foxhole court. Unable to name whatever is hiding in his chest.

As soon as he hears someone coming he knows who it is. And he’s right.

Neil doesn’t come up. He rolls his sleeves up to the elbows, jacket mysteriously absent, and pushes the glass door to the court open. He looks all the way up at Andrew, and walks inside.

So of course, like an idiot, Andrew gets up to meet him.

What else could he have done?

The walk down the steps feels longer than usual, and the glass when he touches it feels colder. Every colour is starker, even the blue of Neil’s eyes. His suit fits him a little too well, and his hair is mussed from the after-party. He is standing there in his kingdom so still and serious, hands in his pockets.

“If Kevin catches you here he’ll probably start crying,” Neil says, his voice the only sound in this cage for once.

“Why do you think I left when he wasn’t looking?”

Neil tilts his head, narrowing his eyes in that way he does sometimes when he needs something to stick.

“He’s proud of you, you know.”

Oh Andrew knows. Why do you think he left when he wasn’t looking?

Neil swallows, looks at Andrew for a moment more, walks backwards towards the goal.

“So am I,” he says.

Andrew knows that too.

Something to note about Neil Josten, is that he doesn’t cry. He panics. He locks himself away somewhere in the dark and forgets how to breathe. And Andrew can see him disappearing, even behind the pride in his voice.

Andrew joins him in goal and wraps his hands in his shirt. Pulls him closer. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Eyes locked together.

Andrew doesn’t cry either. He doesn’t know what he does. And that’s the problem.

Neil’s fingers find themselves in Andrew’s shirt sleeves, so Andrew kisses him.

Something about it feels different, a little sad a little desperate a little in denial and far too good. Soft and hard and then slow and then fast and then both of them trying to breathe without moving too far away.

Neil Josten doesn’t cry and neither does Andrew Minyard, but maybe they both panic a little.

He digs his fingers into Neil’s hair because he needs to, and Neil closes his eyes because he needs to and says –

“Andrew.”

And it has never sounded less like a name. It sounds like keys, and slammed doors, and speeding cars, and quiet huffs of laughter, and mocking tones, and honesty.

So Andrew kisses him again, again and again and again.

They’re standing in the Foxhole Court and it’s kind of like the entire past five years all in one.

But mostly, it’s just him and Neil.

* * *

He’s been living in this city for 20 minutes.

He ends up standing outside his apartment door staring at the keys in his hand. The lights of the hallway are bright and white, the door is pale blue for whatever reason, the apartment number is 52B and the mailboxes are downstairs at the buildings entrance.

It’s the sound of a floorboard creaking down the hall that prompts him to open the door in the end.

It’s a furnished apartment in neutral colours. Nicky would call it a blank canvas. But Nicky isn’t here and neither is anyone else, so Andrew brings his boxes up one by one and fills the cupboards with his kitchen ware and his closet with his clothes and sits on the hardwood floor for 25 minutes.

It’s so quiet.

He’s staring at the wall where a TV is clearly meant to go, and then he’s staring off into the kitchen, and then he calls Nicky like he was asked to and then he sits on the couch.

It’s grey which means Neil would love it.

Then he gets up and goes into the kitchen, runs his fingertips across the back of a chair and along the countertops and looks into his empty fridge.

He’s going to need to get milk.

He takes some scissors and opens the box on the table, the one labelled bedroom. It’s just new sheets and a blanket, pillows, all in their packaging still and shrink wrapped down to nothing. So he takes the scissors and listens to the sound of the air hissing out of the packaging and the sheets just smell like newness.

He has a washing machine and drier in the closet off from the front door, so he puts it all in there. He goes out, spends too long trying to find a grocery store then not long enough shopping for food.

It’s still quiet when he gets back, because the washing is done. So, he figures out the drier and puts it in there and makes pasta for dinner and sits on the couch some more.

Remembers the look on Neil’s face when he drove away from him.

Cleans, unpacks some more. He figures out how to use the shower, and he figures out that the door to the small balcony can open if you push the handle hard enough.

He puts his sheets on his too big bed and when he crawls in, it’s just him and empty space.

And the sheets just smell like laundry detergent.

Boston is different.

* * *

All of Andrew’s clothes smell new now and it’s not as warm as it was in South Carolina.

He’s walking to his car after practice, wondering if he would forget where it is if he didn’t have an eidetic memory.

It was his first practice with his new team and he has an odd sensation in his stomach. He’s not nervous, he doesn’t care, they don’t intimidate or impress him. It’s just that they’re new and this is unfamiliar. The colours are all different on their uniforms.

It doesn’t take a genius or Bee to tell you that for people like Andrew, routine and familiarity are important. And that when those are disrupted, it’s interesting. It can be difficult.

Andrew’s been feeling less lately, so he’s going to assume that it has indeed been difficult.

“Hey, Number 9!”

Logically, he knows that’s him.

“Minyard!”

It’s just setting something off in his brain that doesn’t sound right. And something else too.

So Andrew just keeps going back to his car, so he can go back to 52B and try to open that window in the living space that’s still stuck.

“See you tomorrow!”

Obviously. Where else is Andrew going to go?

* * *

He’s sat at the table, staring into his hot chocolate that didn’t come out like he expected it to. The brand of marshmallows he bought isn’t the same as his old one and the texture is different.

It’s day five of no sleep in his too big bed, and it’s now 1:32 am.

He keeps finding his arm under the pillow, the one right next to his. But the weight is always wrong, and the only sleep-warmth in the bed is his and it disquiets him that he let himself get used to anything else.

He keeps finding himself taking wrong turns in his head.

He keeps finding himself comparing tastes and smells and voices to old ones.

He keeps finding himself staring into nothing for long stretches of time.

He doesn’t really think too much about doing it until it’s already done.

“Andrew?”

Neil’s voice when he answers the phone isn’t tired at all. Well, it is. But he’s clearly awake.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” is his answer, but it’s not what he meant to say. He’s not exactly sure what he meant to say. Hello, maybe.

“Why aren’t you?”

Because he can’t. And he can’t because it’s too cold and the bed is too big and it smells like laundry detergent.

He can’t because everything around him is so flat and everything inside him is so flatlined and he dreamed of orange and bunkbeds and curling flames of hair last night and he hasn’t felt anything in days.

But Andrew doesn’t say that. They both know the answer anyway. He doesn’t say anything, so Neil doesn’t either and that’s not going to be enough.

So he says –

“Talk, Neil.”

“About what?”

“I don’t really care.”

Neil, shuffles on the other of the end line and Andrew hears the breath he lets out in his ear and he closes his eyes.

“I’m on the roof again.”

“How many nights is that in a row now?”

“Six. But in my defence, it’s a nice night.”

Andrew keeps his eyes closed. Listens to Neil talk about how when he was very little, he used to crawl to the window and stick his head out into the night air. Pretend he was Peter Pan flying away. Listens to the skip in Neil’s voice when says that he used to think his red hair would make him magic like Peter Pan.

He wonders when Neil stopped believing in things like magic, and then he has to stop because this is a sharp enough night.

“Andrew, I know it’s late but could you stay? Not for long, just…”

“I’ll stay.”

His hot chocolate goes cold in the end.

* * *

Andrew has nothing to do.

So he takes a walk.

First he just walks around the area near his building.

Then he ends up on a bus.

Then he’s wondering tourist spots in Boston, then he’s sitting in one of a thousand Dunkin Donuts eating a strawberry iced donut with sprinkles.

Then he’s on another bus, sweating, then he’s wondering around Faneuil Hall then he’s leaving because he doesn’t care for it.

He gets into one fight with a man in the street because he bumps into Andrew. Fight meaning Andrew stood there and let the man cuss himself in circles while Andrew stared blankly at him. By the time Andrew walked away he was too tired to follow.

Then he ends up sitting on a bench in Boston Common watching the sunset.

All of this is unfamiliar.

His thoughts skitter away.

* * *

Andrew is smoking out of the living room window and avoiding the heat of early July in Boston.

“Oh, did you get that care package we sent you?”

Nicky’s on speakerphone on the windowsill, and if there was a breeze maybe it’d blow him away.

“Yeah, I did. I fail to understand why you thought I’d need fox slippers.”

“To remind you of us! And Neil. He’s still a Fox after all.”

Andrew doesn’t need any help on that front, and he’s pretty sure Neil will always be a fox in one way or another. Sneaky and ginger.

“How’s Boston?”

Andrew takes a drag before he answers, because he hasn’t quite decided yet.

“Fine. Renee sent me a decorative pillow last week.”

“Aw that’s nice. Did you keep it?”

It’s the only pillow on his couch right now that isn’t grey. It’s green.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Okay well, I gotta go. We had to move date night this week so, I’ll talk to you soon. Call me.”

And then it’s silent again.

It’s odd because Andrew didn’t notice how much space Nicky’s voice filled until it’s gone. He just keeps smoking out of the window and ignores the sound his phone makes that tells him the team group chat is active.

He’s so tired today. He went food shopping after practice. He’s finally found one close by that has what he likes. So that’s something. But he woke up at 2am this morning for no reason.

Aaron called him two days ago and it was a quiet, short conversation but it set something titling in Andrew’s chest to see his name appear on his phone.

It’s been weird. Different still. He hasn’t seen any of them since May. Not even Neil. And Andrew’s been doing the stupidest things lately. Like wondering what Neil would think of the play he made at practice. Like imagining where Neil is right now and if he’s enjoying captaincy as much he says he is. Like thinking he can feel Neil if he just remembers hard enough.

Andrew painted his bedroom last week. It used to be light brown, now it’s a very light grey. He caught himself thinking Neil would like it.

And then he had to stop except he couldn’t, so he ended up curled on the couch watching Exy re-runs on the TV.

Now, Andrew drops his cigarette out of the open window onto the sidewalk below. He’s four floors up, so he gets to watch it float away with the slight breeze. In the time it takes to hit the ground he’s counted out six long breaths.

He’s been sleeping better. A little. But Andrew’s been dreaming instead. Of kisses and rooftops, of empty beds and Neil’s smile. Dagger sharp. Soft corners somehow.

* * *

Practice, and Andrew plays too hard or too well, he’s not really paying attention. He knows he is talented, and he knows that he is trying. He knows that he made the decision to have a future years ago now.

However, he also knows that he cannot change the fundamentals of himself. Not exactly. He can't change his history. And he knows that most of this team look at him with trepidation in their eyes. Distrust.

It doesn’t bother him but it clearly bothers them. The captain, (“We think he’s going to be a great asset to the team, you know there’s, there’s so much raw talent there and it’s really going to be something I think. Next question?”) looks at him with a warning in his eyes.

Don’t cause any trouble.

Andrew swings.

The day is a blur of navy blue.

* * *

The sound of Neil’s voice isn’t the same over so many miles. It’s pouring out of Andrew’s speakerphone as he sits on his balcony, tinny and thinner than it sounds in person, up close.

It doesn’t help that he’s eating dinner at 9:30pm and formulating math equations.

He’s not even saying much, neither of them are. They don’t always need too.

Andrew smokes his cigarette.

He lets it burn down, listens to the night air around him, still hot. Listens to the sound of Neil’s pencil scratching paper.

“Andrew?”

For whatever odd reason, Neil’s voice sounds _right there._ Just in that moment. And it sends Andrew’s memory careening onto a campus miles away in line for coffee on a Tuesday afternoon.

“Hm?” is all the sound he makes in response and apparently that works.

“When do you think you’ll be able to visit?”

Andrew thinks about it.

“You’ll be here in three days” he says. Factual.

Something is sticking, in his brain or his throat.

“I know.”

“So we figure it out from there.” Factual.

They fall into their familiar silence again, and it’s settled.

* * *

Andrew is too hot in this airport. He refuses to wear anything but black. He refuses to not wear his armbands in public still.

But mostly the problem is that his heartbeat refuses to slow down and it’s troubling him.

He got here 25 minutes ago, straight out of practice. He’s tired, but he knows he won’t be the only one.

He keeps watching the doors waiting for the crowd to start coming through, or for his phone to go off.

A watched pot never boils or whatever.

A man wonders by looking lost. A woman wonders by looking harried. A screaming baby sounds somewhere nearby and time keeps ticking by.

The other day several members of his team approached him after practice, calling themselves ‘The Guys’. Saying they go to ‘the bar’ once a month. Does he want to come?

And it was odd. It was odd because he knows a lot of this team think he’s insane. Some of them think he’s a sociopath. Others think he’s some kind of tragic figure. Others have their own pasts. Maybe ‘The Guys’ are the latter.

His phone goes off and despite himself he stands a little straighter, eyes on the doors.

_here > _

Okay.

It’s one of those things, waiting for someone to appear in a crowd. Every person who comes through could be them, and they never are. Until suddenly it is and it actually takes you a second to process them.

He’s wearing a grey shirt, long sleeves because of course. His hair is absolute chaos and he’s carrying another godforsaken duffle bag.

He’s looking around eyes wide, looking for Andrew, and Andrew just stands there, on the outskirts, watching Neil’s whole face change when he sees him. It’s a minute, Neil, type of change. Muscles relaxing and eyes closing for just a second longer than a blink.

And Andrew just. Stands there. Watches Neil walk over and for some reason he doesn’t look real but he must be because he’s standing right in front of Andrew. He can see the fibres of his grey shirt, the curls of his hair, the upturn of his lips as he smiles quietly at Andrew.

“Hey.”

It sounds different in person, different then Neil’s voice stretched across miles of land.

“Hey.”

He wonders if Neil is thinking the same thing, because his smile widens at the sound of Andrews voice. His eyes keep skittering across Andrew’s face and Andrew, for his part, can’t stop cataloguing every little freckle on Neil’s nose from the sun. Have they always been a thing?

He’s so close he could –

He just –

“Take me home?”

Yes.

\----

52B looks different with Neil in it.

He’s looking around all curious, poking his nose into Andrew’s cupboards and curling up on Andrew’s couch and Andrew is almost confused by it all.

He looks completely out of place and like the last thing left to unpack all at the same time. Like somewhere in this apartment is the place Neil was meant to fill in the move.

Andrew just sits with him in the end, tangling his fingers up into his shirt and pulling him closer till Andrew’s legs end up stretched across his.

Neil’s hand ends up holding Andrew’s. The other ends up caught in the fabric of Andrew’s sweatpants.

They just keep staring at each other like idiots.

Maybe because Neil’s world is still in Palmetto and Andrew’s is still in limbo trying to settle. Maybe because they never pictured their lives separate after that first year. Maybe because they haven’t seen each other since May and they don’t have much practice in this yet.

But Andrew’s shoulders haven’t been this relaxed since May and Neil still smells like lemon and boy. He still looks the same, and he still feels the same when Andrew kisses him.

This takes no re-learning, no remembering. This is muscle memory, this is the most natural thing they could do.

Neil kisses him like he’s missed him, like he’s hungry, and now that they’ve started they can’t stop. Andrew just keeps pressing closer and he keeps needing, and Neil says his name and laughs like he’s not sure what reality is and so Andrew has to kiss him again.

And then –

“I’ve missed you.”

And it’s this soft little confession, just this quiet thing hanging in the air between them, noses brushing eyes closed.

Neil Josten is dangerous.

So Andrew holds his face in his hands and kisses him one more time.

Then he takes him to bed, because honestly they’re both tired.

And Andrew is lying there, looking at Neil in his bed and unable to close his eyes. Neil can’t seem to close his either, until Andrew’s arm finds its way under his pillow.

Neil rolls closer, his nose rubbing against the pillow.

“Smells like you.”

Andrew doesn’t think Neil meant to say it, and it was mostly a whisper anyway. Andrew hears it all the same, and he can’t stop hearing it even as they both fall asleep. Because all Andrew can smell is lemon and boy and he can finally sleep without having to dream it.

And when he wakes up the next morning, Neil is still there. Filling all the empty space of the bed, telling him he likes the colour of the walls, pouring coffee in Andrew’s kitchen, walking around Boston and making everything look different.

He complains about the heat, they call Nicky together who almost cries, they fall asleep on the couch together by accident.

“I think we should use Skype,” Neil says, leaning over the stove and watching Andrew do the cooking.

“What, do you miss my face that much?”

“Yes.”

Honest and still a dick about it somehow.

Andrew thinks about it. Seeing Neil’s face every day, his old dorm, knowing for sure that Neil is eating dinner because he can see him do it.

God help him.

“Sure.”

Neil grins at him, quickly and victoriously, before stealing a spoonful of marinara sauce.

“You could just wait three more minutes.”

Neil just steals another spoonful and asks “How are things going with Betsy?”

Which is another way of asking how things are going with Andrew.

“We call once a week, she’s still good at her job.”

Neil nods, taking that for what it is. Every once in a while Andrew catches him gazing around 52B, eyes catching on the couch, the keys in their bowl, the ash tray by the living room window. He’s doing it now. There’s something in his eyes, like something in his world view is changing just a tiny bit.

He looks so good leaning against Andrew’s counter.

“Make yourself useful and grab the plates.”

“Where?”

“Top left.”

Neil’s shirt rides up as he reaches into the cupboard and it’s possibly one of the most cliché moments of Andrew’s life that his eyes linger on Neil’s skin like they do.

And then Neil stubs his toe on the table leg and Andrew wishes the illusion would have shattered but it just won’t.

They eat dinner together quietly, and it’s so normal.

He doesn’t know what to do after this.

* * *

Andrew’s going to skip the goodbye part.

It was at the entrance at the airport and he let go of Neil’s hoody string and watched him walk away.

* * *

Andrew swings, swings, swings. Practice, practice, practice.

He’s stopped noticing the navy blue of the court, of the uniforms.

He’s stopped noticing his teammates uncertain eyes as much, which means they’re landing at his feet less often.

He’s stopped letting his brain wander outside the court as often, standing there in goal, learning and adapting every day to the follies of his teammates.

He ducks, pushes, swings the ball clear to the other side of the court.

Jorge nods at him, a captain acknowledging progress.

Andrew hasn’t caused as much trouble as maybe he thought he would.

* * *

He’s walking through Boston Common on Thursday evening after practice as he always does now, coffee in hand, a single donut.

He’s eating his powdered sugar, absorbing his caffeine and vanilla, and looking out into the expanse of everything.

He’s sitting on what is slowly becoming his bench. Wondering if people think about him when he’s not there.

He tilts his head back. Lets himself stare into the sky, lets himself drift away from himself just for a moment.

It’s the closest thing to peaceful he thinks he may ever get.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, the tone that tells him it’s a Fox calling 20 minutes ahead of schedule.

He puts his coffee on the bench beside him, pulls out his phone.

“Neil.”

* * *

He’s drinking at the bar, listening to ‘The Guys’ talk amongst each other.

There are no flashing lights, or pumping music. No shots spilled all over tables.

The lights are dimmer, the music is quieter, and so is the company.

He doesn’t belong here exactly, he can’t. But he doesn’t stand out any more than he usually does. This, is his third night are the bar with ‘The Guys’.

Andrew was right from the start. These are the men with histories, with memories hidden behind winning smiles and strong arms. These are the guys who stand just on the outskirts of victory hugs, who linger sometimes over strange little things that only mean something to them.

It’s not that they sit and talk about their tragic backstories. It’s not that they compare battle scars. It’s not that they have the same amount of blood on their hands as Andrew does. Well, it’s unlikely.

But it’s quiet conversation he doesn’t have to join or even listen too. They don’t always seem to expect him too.

“Hey, Minyard.”

He lifts his eyes over his glass, the only acknowledgement they’ll get from him.

“You’re from South Carolina too right? Foxhole Court.”

It occurs to him then, that he hasn’t heard anyone outside of the Foxhole Court itself speaks its name since he left it.

He takes a sip of his drink, another sip of his drink. Says – “And?”

“You ever think about going back, revisiting old haunts?”

“No.”

And that’s that. Because it’s true. He doesn’t think about it. But somehow, it feels like a lie. Like he’s been lying for months. He just didn’t know who exactly he was lying too.

It’s drinks at the bar. And later Andrew will get a cab close to home, walk the remaining three minutes, and climb into his bed.

And that’s one Friday every month.

* * *

He’s lying awake at night.

It’s no longer such an alien amount of space in this bed of his, but it always feel more alien right after Neil has left it again.

He’s thinking about how the first time he ever met Neil, he had flown to him, how the second time he met Neil, Neil had flown to Andrew.

How fitting it is now that all they ever do is meet and wave goodbye at Boston’s airport.

Andrew closes his eyes, smells himself and lemon left behind on the pillow next to him.

Eventually, eventually, eventually, a day later, he sleeps.

Neil comes to visit as often as he can. They go to Paul Revere House, and they walk down Atlantic Avenue on the rubble of Boston 1872.

Andrew kisses him outside the Florentine Café on a quiet day, and he kisses him in a hidden corner of Boston Public Garden. They go on midnight runs to the corner store by Andrew’s apartment and Neil always leaves again eventually.

But he always leaves a photo behind. Hanging on the wall on those little removable hooks, on the windowsill, on Andrew’s desk. A photo of Andrew standing at the airport waiting to pick him up. A photo of the bridge in Boston Common because he knows Andrew. A photo of Neil standing under a tree wearing Andrew’s only piece of coloured clothing. His orange 03 hoody.

Sometimes Kevin comes to visit, just for a weekend usually not too often, takes Andrew on a historical tour of the city. Kevin tells him once that Faneuil Hall is actually where the first town meeting in United States history was held.

Renee calls when she can. So does Aaron. Andrew walks through Boston Common on Thursdays, calls Neil every Tuesday for dinner and scattered around rest the week and during strange times of night where shadows look longer. Nicky calls once a week.

There’s a plant on the windowsill that Andrew doesn’t have to water too often.

He goes home most nights with sore limbs, and when he unlocks the door it feels more practiced.

And time ticks by.

* * *

He’s throwing a pillow onto the couch. Green. It matches Renee’s.

He sends her a picture and she calls immediately after.

“It looks lovely,” she says, smug if it was anyone else but her. Still a little smug anyway.

“Hm," he says, and she laughs quietly on the other end.

And then she says “I’m glad you’re starting to feel more at home.”

The words linger in the air hours after they hang up. They linger as Neil re-heats last night’s dinner over Skype, and the familiar sound of the microwave 804 miles away beeps in Andrew’s ears and memory. Like he could reach out and reset the time.

But.

That’s not home anymore.

And somehow, even as something in his chest aches the littlest bit, the wires of his brain are starting to learn that.

* * *

It’s a Tuesday and Andrew is staring at his dinner ingredients laid out on the counter waiting for his stupid laptop to ring.

Neil is many things, but he is not usually late. At least not for this. Five minutes go by, 6:35pm, and it’s not late enough that it should matter but for some reason it does. Two more minutes go by, another two minutes, and Andrew doesn’t want to do it, doesn’t want to press call and listen to Neil not answer.

So he waits two more minutes.

And it rings.

It frustrates Andrew how quickly he moves to answer. And it frustrates him that Neil knows immediately that this has had an effect on Andrew.

“I know, I didn’t see the time.”

This is frustrating too. That seeing Neil’s face, hearing his voice, soothes the ache a little. But Andrew has been tangled up with Neil for too long to bother pretending like it doesn’t.

“It’s fine.”

Neil shakes his head, hair tumbling into his eyes and too long again.

“I wish I was with you. I wish you were here.”

Neil, of course, means it. And he means it so much tonight, leaning closer to his laptop screen and gazing at Andrew. There’s something in his voice that sets off a small alarm in Andrew’s head.

“Just make your dinner.”

“Yes sir,” Neil says, swaying closer to the camera and ducking away again with his one dimple showing.

So they make dinner and it’s normal.

Neil tells him about his classes, Andrew tells him about his team, about the weather he doesn’t care for.

Every now and then, they fall into silence. And every now and then something about it feels charged. Like there’s something they’re not saying. And Neil falls asleep eventually, sat on the couch without Andrew, and he hears someone open the dorm door through the shitty laptop mic. He catches himself leaning forward, to try and hush them with his glare like he used to. But they move on without noticing him and somehow Neil stays asleep.

So Andrew stays too, staring at the dark shape of him looking strange and vulnerable and amorphous.

Something isn’t right.

* * *

Time ticks over again and Boston starts hanging up their decorations.

Andrew ends up walking into a fake cobweb the Super put in the building entrance. He opens his mailbox to postcards from Renee begging him to go to Salem.

He tells Aaron about the candy he’s already eating just to listen to him complain.

Neil misses three calls in two and a half weeks.

Usually, when they’re schedules are off, he just calls back later. But not as much recently. Andrew doesn’t understand why it’s stuck so much in his brain.

Today has been an exhausting day. He got into another fight with his coach over publicity, the captain called him crazy and Andrew never used to care about those things. Today is just different for whatever reason.

He finds himself staring into his mailbox for long enough that his neighbour almost asks if he’s okay. He can see 54B bite their tongue and walk away, stealing one last concerned glance before catching the elevator up to their floor.

And he can see himself going up too, opening his door, and going to bed without having said a word to anyone since his last ‘fuck you’ to his coach.

He slams the mailbox shut and goes outside instead.

He wides up in downtown Boston eating takeaway pizza, staring at people as they walk by and too cold in his jacket.

So of course his phone rings.

“Andrew.”

It occurs to him that he’s angry. And Neil’s quiet voice isn’t helping.

“What?”

Is all Andrew says in response. It’s not what he meant to say, but he doesn’t know what else he would have.

“Hi,” Neil says.

Silence then, Neil’s breathing over the phone and maybe an abandoned word or two. Andrew is somehow still eating his pizza.

It goes on too long so Andrew breaks it.

“Parking is shit in this city.”

“You’re out?”

“Yeah.”

Silence again.

Jesus Christ.

Neil says, a burst of sound in Andrew’s ear “I just – I’ve been –“

“You’ve been what, Neil?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

He can hear the shake of Neil’s head in the cadence of his tinny voice.

“Tell me,” Andrew says, not angry or pointed because Andrew never is except it’s been years and they both know him better than that by now.

He just wants to know. Because he needs to. He hasn’t had to push for the truth like this in a long time.

“I was just thinking out loud, it’s not important.”

Which means it is.

Andrew thinks he hears a plane flying overheard. Going 2 hours and 5 minutes away. A little further south down the coast.

No, it’s just a far away engine.

Neil sighs, the tiniest tinniest thinnest sound that could have been imagined but definitely isn’t.

“Andrew I’ll call you tomorrow okay? Can I?”

Neil sounds tired and nervous, and like there’s something he’s not fucking saying. Running away when there’s no one there to catch him.

He wants to say:

What haven’t you been telling me?

But he just says -

“Yes.”

Neil sighs, and it sounds exhausted. And then he says goodbye and hangs up and Andrew finishes the last bite of pizza.

It’s only after Neil’s voice is gone that Andrew realises it was echoing slightly.

And he’s not sure what he was angry at today. It’s possible he’s been angry all his life just unable to feel it. He’s been doing so much heavy re-learning these past years. But he was under the impression he had learned this much; his need for Neil Josten however ill-advised, and Neil Josten himself.

But those missed calls, this night, that echo.

Those are unfamiliar.

Miles suddenly look like years. Something has gone wrong here, and Andrew doesn’t know what he did to cause it.

* * *

I dream of you some nights.

I dream of things I wish I could forget but we both know I never will.

I hear his voice behind my shoulder sometimes.

I hear yours.

I think about you when you’re not around.

I know that something isn’t right.

I thought you would tell me.

But you won’t.

And Andrew is a hypocrite. Because for however much Neil isn’t saying, there’s so much Andrew won’t say either. Can’t, won’t. Same thing in the end.

And isn’t it interesting, how they fumbled through the distance just fine until it suddenly became this.

Things they won’t say.

* * *

He swings the racket.

_Hi._

He springs to the other side of the goal.

 _This is Neil Josten_.

He huffs a breath out of his lungs.

_I’m not available right now._

He swings the racket again.

_Leave a message._

* * *

The leaves are turning red and turning redder. It reminds him of someone.

The wind is getting cooler, sharper, angrier. It reminds him of someone.

Something in the landscape of the trees reminds Andrew of a different place in a different state.

Something about the sprawling campuses of Boston’s colleges, or the swarm like masses pouring out of them.

His thoughts skitter away.

* * *

_I can’t Skype tonight > _

_Call instead? > _

_ < Fine_

* * *

“Do you ever miss South Carolina?”

“No.”

* * *

_can’t sleep > _

_ < Why not _

_who knows > _

* * *

Andrew stands in the office and looks at the schedule. Looks at the vacation days.

Walks out to join the others.

* * *

Halloween night comes to Boston, and Andrew ignores it. No one is knocking on his apartment door tonight, no one is stupid enough.

He’s lying on the couch at home, thinking about nothing in particular because he doesn’t feel like it. Nicky is a presence through the phone by his head. A quiet, thoughtful one, that reminds Andrew that no one is that unknowable.

“Hey. Are you… and this is probably a stupid question because you probably won’t answer… but are you okay?”

Has he ever been?

His standing on the team seems more settled now. He hasn’t had nightmares recently enough to be a problem. He eats regularly again, his sheets smell like they’re his. He gets regular calls from his own, all of them, even if there’s nothing much to say. Even Aaron.

There is persistent tug in his gut.

“Yes,” he says, and he’s such a dishonest creature. Because he’s not struggling like he imagines Nicky is thinking, but that is not the same thing as being okay.

There’s a question on his tongue he’s never had to ask before. But when he closes his eyes they reflect bright blue back at him.

Nicky hums to himself in response, and Andrew knows in that moment he will never ask. He won’t ask what Nicky knows, he won’t ask after him, because it feels too close to admitting something he doesn’t want to say out loud.

So he lets Nicky ask him about the team, about the bar, the coffee place down the road. And right before Andrew hangs up, Nicky blurts –

“Tell Neil – can you ask him to – never mind. Talk soon!”

And just like that Andrew understands.

Neil hasn’t been cutting Andrew off.

He’s been cutting them all off.

* * *

Andrew is not always right. Usually, in most cases, but not always. And when he is, it’s not often pleasant.

The next day, he’s in the locker room after a very late practice.

He was supposed to call Kevin last night, which he did. He said he hasn’t heard from Neil in a while.

Which brings him back to being right most of the time.

His phone rings. He doesn’t answer because it’s not one of his four specific ring tones. Then it rings again. Again.

Number 13 nudges him, immediately regrets it and ducks his head away. But the point has been made.

Outside, in the crisp air of Boston fall, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and wonders how ready he needs to be to redial the number on it.

Because it’s Wymack.

He looks to the black sky and presses call.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?”

“Playing for someone else’s team.”

There’s something in there that would have made Nicky laugh probably.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit Minyard. _Neil_ doesn’t.”

In a far away place in Andrew’s hateful memory a chaotic and never ending night is replaying. A singular emotion he never used to know.

“Where is he?” he asks, and he can actually hear the feeling in his voice. Bizarre, how he can still surprise himself.

“On my couch, all fucked up.”

All fucked up.

All fucked up.

All fucked up.

“What does that mean?” He asks, pushing off the wall. His skin feels hypersensitive, everything colder and harsher.

What does that mean what does that mean –

“He’s just – all fucked up. He won’t talk to me.”

Was it always this cold out?

“He hasn’t been talking to anyone. What does that _mean_ Coach?”

Wymack breaks off here. Takes a moment. Sighs. Andrew storms down dark streets and ignores that his apartment is too far away to walk this late at night.

Andrew’s breath cuts into the air, proof that he’s still breathing.

“He looks kinda like he used too.”

Kinda like he used too. Rabbit eyes? Constant flight in his limbs? Fear in the corners of his mouth?

“He looks so tired Andrew. Poor fucker.”

Andrew sits on a random curb, stares back up at the black sky because the anger has left Wymack’s voice and all that’s left is that patented fatherly concern of his and where is Andrew going to go.

But he has to ask.

“What happened?”

Because Neil is asleep on Wymacks’ couch and Wymack is on the phone to Andrew.

Somewhere on the other end of the line, Wymacks air leaves his lungs in a rush, and Andrew imagines him sitting on the table in front of the couch staring at a sleeping boy Andrew can’t see.

Wymack sighs and says “He showed up at my door, saying he couldn’t sleep and could he use my couch. I know he’s been struggling, I’ve been trying to wait. Wait for him to come to me, or for you to help him fix it.”

“But?”

“But I think he’s been having panic attacks again. Nightmares.”

Fuck.

* * *

Once upon a time, one of the Minyard twins was taken to court. It was a dark and stormy night or whatever.

Standing at the court doors with them that day and all days was Neil Abram Josten, witness.

Andrew knew, knows, how hard it was for Neil to take the stand that day and recount what happened in that room. He didn’t flinch or stutter, he was too angry for that. Neil’s anger was always such a sharp and perfect weapon. No, he held his trauma of that day in the tight corners of his eyes and the small almost unnoticeable exhale as he left the stand.

At the time, Andrew acknowledged this and moved past it because he just didn’t have space for anything but himself and Aaron and Cass’ face.

Neil never said a word about how he felt about any of it. He never let it show in his voice, or his body, or his hands as they sorted through court papers with Kevin trying to make sense of it.

He pocketed his own emotions to take care of Andrew’s. Even when he still couldn’t feel them.

Andrew thinks about this as he stares at the photos on the walls of his apartment. All the pieces of Neil left behind, all the spaces he filled without ever having to be asked.

Something to note about Neil Josten, is that he doesn’t cry. He panics. He locks himself away somewhere in the dark and forgets how to breathe.

And Andrew, so wrapped up in trying to fit himself into his new reality, left him there to choke on his own air.

I wish you were here.

In retrospect, it sounds more like I wish you _here._

He grabs the handle of his duffle bag and leaves.

* * *

It hits him when he lands. Steps out onto the tarmac and sees the South Carolina sky.

But he’ll think about it later. Right now, Wymack is waiting at the gate for him, looking just like how Andrew left him, just like he always has somehow.

“Minyard you bastard” he says by way of greeting, and Andrew tilts his chin up in return.

And off they go.

In the car, Wymack tells him about the fight Neil got into last week, the bloody one. He nearly broke Jacks nose clean off his face, and they both have the bruises to show for it.

“I’m guessing you haven’t seen him lately.”

Oh Coach, you guess right.

Andrew drops his unlit cigarette out of the window and asks “Where is he now?”

The car turns, drives past Andrew’s old donut place.

“Class, won’t be out till 2.”

That gives Andrew two hours then.

“Okay.”

At least he’s still going to classes, or whatever.

The car keeps moving, everything keeps going in blurs past the window but he recognises it all. He remembers it all. He remembers years in seconds.

Okay.

\----

He’s standing on Palmetto University Campus.

It’s the most alien and the most familiar thing in the world.

This is the place Andrew had been the longest. Before he left it.

Five years.

The longest Andrew had ever been anywhere.

Someone hollers to their friend nearby and a discarded Halloween solo cup from three days ago drifts by on the breeze.

He rolls his eyes and walks.

He passes by building’s he used to waste hours in.

He looks into the window of the office he used to sit in with Bee.

He walks to the coffee stand, orders a vanilla latte from someone who doesn’t recognise him.

He goes to the library, remembers hands tugging hair and blue eyes staring up at him.

He steps onto the tarmac of the Fox Tower parking lot.

And looks up.

Up.

Up.

He can almost see himself, sitting on the rooftop with his legs dangling over the edge. He can almost hear his own manic laughter echoing all the way down.

Which is the stupidest thought he’s ever had. He’s never existed outside himself enough to see himself from a distance.

But the folly of man is that logic and emotion don’t always coincide. Always getting peoples mental states into trouble.

It’s like no time has passed at all and Andrew is not a sentimental creature.

Andrew sits on the stairs leading up to the doors and waits.

And now, he thinks about it.

Did he ever miss South Carolina?

Yes.

Which is why in his own hidden, subconscious way, he couldn’t bring himself to come back. 

\----

Andrew only needs to sit for 10 minutes before he arrives, appearing out of the afternoon mist like a ghost or just someone too tired to inhabit themselves properly.

Andrew doesn’t stand. Doesn’t move. He just watches Neil’s shape take form and catalogues all the changes in it.

Heavy shoulders, tense limbs, darting eyes and bags beneath them. Hands hidden in hoodie pockets and a bruise blooming over his right cheek.

Blue eyes that startle when they see him. Feet that stop in their tracks metres away.

Then, Andrew gets up. Then, Andrew walks the rest of the way and breathes in lemon and boy. Man, really. If you think about it.

He stares into those blue blue eyes until Neil’s head tips onto Andrew’s shoulder. His body has to slouch to do it, and it seems so ready to do so. His spine so relieved to un-tense. Hands out of hoodie pockets and tangled in Andrew’s jacket instead.

“Wymack called you,” he says.

Andrew closes his eyes for just a second, says “Yes. Yes he did.”

Then he pulls back, pulls Neil’s hood down, and they both know it’s time to stop running. For both of them.

Andrew says -

“Talk.”

\----

“You were doing so well in Boston.”

They’re sitting on the rooftop. If Andrew looks down, maybe he could see himself 25 minutes ago.

“And?”

Neil stretches his legs out over the tar of the roof, frustrated.

“And I didn’t – I knew it was hard for you to get used to it there and I knew you didn’t want to come back.”

Astute little fucker. Even Andrew didn’t know that. Not all the way. He still doesn’t think he does know that. Something about it rings wrong and right.

“And?”

Neil scrubs a hand through his hair, his bruised face all smudged by the autumn air.

“I was going to handle it myself. I wasn’t going to make it harder for you. I wasn’t going to force you back here.”

Now they’re both some version of the same emotion.

“So you martyred yourself. How many times, Neil, must I say it?”

“No one likes a martyr. I know,” he says, finally looking at Andrew. Finally looking Andrew in the eye, as he says – “I needed to be able to handle it alone.”

Why.

“Why?”

Neil sighs into his next words, “You were adjusting so well. Everyone’s moved on, moved out. I need to be able to stand on my own. Like you.”

This brings several thoughts into Andrew’s head at once:

Are you planning on being alone?

Yes, I can stand on my own.

Do you think that means I don’t still need?

Are you planning on being alone?

Are you stupid?

How many years of therapy do you think I’ve had?

Are you planning on being alone?

He swallows them all down and hooks his fingers into Neil’s collar so he can’t hide.

Neil’s eyes skitter across Andrew’s face, hooded and lingering and exhausted. Looking for answers still, all these years later.

“If you’re drowning, you wave for a lifeguard. If you’re on fire, you pray to god someone is there to put you out.”

Neil closes his eyes. Doesn’t move an inch closer or further away from Andrew’s orbit. So Andrew waits for Neil’s brain to catch up.

Then he tips that tiny bit closer -

“Okay.”

But it’s not.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to come back,” Andrew says, almost without meaning to.

Neil opens his eyes again and he’s far too close now for Andrew to focus but he has too. He has too. But he can’t think of anything else to say.

Except Neil just nods and says again –

“Okay.”

And it is.

\----

They’re in the donut place, eating powdered sugar and drinking shitty coffee. Neither of them are ready to go back to the dorms just yet so they keep their ankles hooked under the table instead.

It’s like existing in two realities. Or skipping between. One universe called Boston, where Andrew is alone and wears navy blue. One universe called South Carolina, where he’s not and surely should be wearing orange.

“Talk to Bee. If not her, then someone.”

“I do.”

“More than just sometimes.”

Neil sits back in his chair and rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. Over the past couple of years, in the right company, Neil has started to become slightly more kinetic in his emotions. Andrews eyes follow his hands as they fall back to the plastic table.

“You know I how feel about therapists," he says, but he’s not biting down that hard on it.

“How many panic attacks have you had recently?”

Silence. Staring at each other.

Andrew tries again.

“How bad have they been?”

“Bad.”

Andrew let’s his point stand and his heartbeat slow down, images playing behind his eyes of Neil in the dark clawing at his face trying to catch air that won’t come. Locked in the bathroom. Voice echoing.

Neil’s stare doesn’t waver, but he does say “Maybe you’re right.”

Andrew lifts one single brow.

Neil rolls his eyes.

But he knows he’s listened.

Andrew lays his hand on the table, palm up.

“Phone.”

Neil grudgingly digs it out of his pocket and drops it in Andrew’s open hand.

It’s lucky it’s empty in this donut place. The only server ducked out two minutes ago for a cigarette.

Lucky because Andrew is scrolling through Neil’s contacts, scrolling scrolling scrolling, looking for the person Neil needs the most besides himself.

There he is.

“Call him,” he says, sliding the phone across the table.

Neil stares at the name and number there, rests his elbows against the plastic table edge, presses call.

It only rings twice.

“Neil?!”

Neil sighs.

“Hey Matt.”

\----

It’s 10:38pm and Andrew is sitting cross legged on the floor of the Foxhole Court, back against the glass. Neil is lying spread eagle in the centre of it.

“I hate that you benefit from this,” he says, and it echoes across the empty plexiglass structure to Neil, who laughs in one sudden sharp sound.

It makes his body bounce slightly, his back arch off the floor to carry the laugh.

“It reminds me what I live for,” he says, and his head rolls to look at Andrew as he says it. “Among other things.”

Andrew leans his head back against the glass.

“I hate you,” Andrew says and it only makes Neil laugh again. It’s never meant to, but these days it almost always does.

He stares up at the ceiling. Stares all around, at all the shades of orange, the fox paws, the familiar shadows of the place.

He’s not a Fox anymore.

Doesn’t make the court any less familiar.

“Hey, Andrew.”

He hadn’t realised he’d closed his eyes until he opened them again. Neil is still looking at him, likely hadn’t stopped. His voice is steady, but it's serious, so he waits for him to continue.

“I know you hate the word, so I won’t say it. But if I did, I would mean it.”

Andrew forces his eyes to stay open. Nods once, leaves it at that. He knows. Andrew would mean it too.

Neil turns away, face to the ceiling, bruise bright and ugly in the court lights.

In the end, it was always going to go like this.

Bastard.

Neil stays spread out on the floor when Andrew sits next to him, but he does turn his face back to him. Eyes looking up at him like they did once before in the library of this same stupid campus.

Andrew pushes against his cheek with a finger but Neil won’t turn away. And it was always going to go like this.

Neil pushes up on his elbows and Andrew leans down and kisses him.

He winds his fingers in Neil's mess of hair, kisses him more and deeper and slower. Bites at his lip gently, pulls him closer, slides down to lie with him on the court floor, brackets him with his arms and lets Neil hold onto them, his hair.

He kisses Neil.

Neil kisses him.

It reminds him a little bit of the first time they really did this. And he thinks Neil might be thinking the same thing.

He kisses and kisses Neil, swallows all his sounds and lets Neil have a few of his own in return. Catches the arch of Neil’s back in his hands.

In the end, it was always going to go like this. The two of them out of breath on the Foxhole Court.

* * *

Andrew stays for three days.

They make a few more phone calls, set up a meeting with Bee for the day after Andrew leaves, drink campus coffee, talk to Wymack. Andrew isn’t present for all of it, but he is always there when Neil is done.

They walk around campus at night, Andrew sits in on the Fox’s practice watching Neil captain. Talks to Wymack on his own. They hold hands on rooftops, kiss in hidden corners, and sleep in the dorm bed they always used to share.

That’s the hardest part for Neil. Sleeping through the night. It won’t magically go away because Andrew is there. But it helps.

They fill the calendar on the wall with phone calls and Skype sessions, a series of orange names.

And eventually, there is this.

“Call," he says.

Neil nods, hands in his hoodie pocket. He says “I’ll call you tonight. I promise.”

That’s settled then.

“Neil.”

And even as he says it he doesn’t know where it’s going. He just stares into Neil’s eyes, bluer than any eyes should get to be, sharper than any knife could be.

In a dark corner of the airport, because they’re both disturbingly good at finding places to hide, they kiss one more time. It’s slow. It’s deliberate. It’s a promise in itself.

Neil’s fingers are in Andrew’s hoodie pocket. They give one tug. And then they let go.

* * *

He waits for three and a half minutes, and the marshmallows are perfectly melted.

Nicky had been to visit Neil last week, and now he’s here on Andrews couch.

“What do you think? I brought them all the way from Germany!”

Andrew takes one sip from his place by the counter and Nicky grins.

“Knew you’d like those, we get them all the time. Perfect hot chocolate ‘mellows.”

Andrew grabs the second mug off the counter and goes to sit by Nicky. Which is a mistake, because when you feed strays they come back. Andrew should know.

Nicky leaves tomorrow.

“I’m so proud of you,” Nicky says, mostly to the hot chocolate, but the message lands all the same. He runs his eyes all over Andrew’s apartment, taking in the photos on the walls, Andrew’s own calendar of calls covered in a select number of names. He takes a breath, big and encompassing, lets it out partly as a laugh partly as a sigh.

“Look at the life you’ve built for yourself Andrew.”

He doesn’t have a response. He doesn’t think he’s supposed too.

So they sit in silence until the laptop rings.

When Aaron’s face pops up on screen, a mirror of Andrew’s if Andrew was a haggard medical student trying to save up for a diamond ring, Nicky’s winning smile is back. He yells at Nicky for being too loud, he yells at Andrew for being Andrew, apologises to Katelyn when she yells at him.

An hour later, Kevin joins the call. He snaps at Andrew for not taking care of his health, and he snaps at Nicky for being Nicky. Apologises to no one.

The sounds of Boston trickle in through his open window, and he sits back and lets them all burn themselves out on each other.

It doesn’t seem to matter that none of them are Foxes anymore.

* * *

“I can’t breathe, I can’t – I –“

“Stop. Look around you. What do you see?”

“The sink, the toilet, the window.”

“What’s on the sink?”

“Toothbrushes, toothpaste.”

“What brand of toothpaste?”

“I don’t know, I don’t –“

“What colour are the toothbrushes?”

“Green and purple.”

“Which one is yours?”

“The green one.”

“What shade of green is it?”

“Neon.”

* * *

“So we’re meeting at the house in Columbia for Christmas?”

“Yes Nicky, would you _stop_ repeating yourself?”

“Kevin. It’s Christmas. Your attitude right now is not very festive.”

“It’s not Christmas, it’s November. And it’s a made up holiday anyway. Originally, Christ was said to have been born –“

“ _Urgh_ , bah fucking humbug!”

* * *

His breath clouds around him in billows. He takes a bite of his festively flavoured donut and a sip of his sweet and spice latte, trying to avoid the split lid of the cup.

He looks out across Boston Common from his bench, watches lovers holding hands and friends sharing laughter, and kids running away from their parents and back again.

So much noise.

Renee is on the end of the phone from where it sits on his knee. Her birthday present to him this year was bluetooth headphones, so he could listen and sip and eat at the same enough time.

She’s talking gently in his ear, Allison an echo behind her.

It’s peaceful enough.

“What do you think?”

Oops, he wasn’t listening.

“Hm?”

“Do you think he’d like it?”

Andrew thinks about it. Would he?

“I have a better idea. I’ll tell you later.” he says around a bite of donut and goes back to listening to the sound of her voice and less the words.

And then she hangs up.

Footsteps crunch towards him.

Right on schedule.

“Here, I grabbed you a new lid.”

Neil chucks it into Andrew’s lap and sits beside him, sipping his second newly acquired black coffee and stealing a bite of Andrew’s donut just to screw up his nose.

“Maybe eat your own first,” he says, but Neil just looks him in the eye and takes another bite.

But it’s only a small one.

“Have you been to Salem yet?” Neil asks, glancing down at the phone still on Andrew’s lap.

“They’ll burn you at the stake.”

“Someone already tried.”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe next time we can go.”

They sit together and watch Boston Common buzz around them.

This was his second birthday present. That, and a new photo on the bedside table.

* * *

Andrew’s team have won and lost this season. And here, careening towards the end of the year, they stand tired and worn in their home court.

“We did Boston proud this year,” Jorge says. A captain till the day he dies that one. All gusto and authority.

Andrew doesn’t particularly care one way or another outside of how this all affects himself and his own. But he listens as the captain gives his speech, as he shouts and cheers them on for the year to come. As he calls out the names of all the most recent recruits (Andrew included), rallies around them for a job well done.

And he looks out beyond the plexiglass.

Everything in this place is blue. Navy or otherwise. There’s whales everywhere, a stupid mascot somehow tied to the official symbols of the United States Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

It’s not the court he started this year playing on.

But it’s not the worst place to be.

* * *

Andrew walks off the plane still feeling the turbulence. He’s tired, and his head hurts from someone’s screaming child.

He stands somewhere out of the way at baggage claim, waiting for the travellers one by one to get their shit and leave.

In most circumstances, all he ever needs is his carry-on duffle bag. But it’s cold, and he’ll be here a little longer than in most circumstances.

So he stands and waits. Imagines all the family’s they’re returning to, all the bustling family homes and trees laden with ornaments and presents.

His head still aches.

Eventually he grabs his own shit and leaves.

And there he is. Wrapped in the same black coat, curls of hair spilling out of a grey beanie, looking as sharp and dangerous as ever.

His eyes melt into a quiet smile when he sees Andrew. You’d only really notice the change in his body if you were Andrew.

He knows it too well to miss it.

“Get me out of here” is the first thing Andrew says. The next thing he says is “are they here too?”

Neil steps closer to him.

“They’re in the car.”

Andrew closes his eyes for a moment and Neil is one tiny step closer when he opens them. He grabs the edge of Neil's beanie and pulls.

“Let’s go.”

Neil smirks.

“Yes your majesty.”

He reaches around Andrew, takes the handle of the suitcase from him, and his fingertips brush ever so lightly against Andrew’s as he does so.

And they walk out together.

\----

“Andrew, you’re here! It’s a Christmas miracle!” Nicky yells out the window of the car, as Erik waves from the driver seat.

Andrew gives him the finger and climbs in the car.

From the trunk of the car Neil says “Nicky, can we for once not draw attention to ourselves?”

Nicky ignores this.

All the way to the house Nicky plays Christmas music, and Erik sings along in German, and Neil sit’s close enough to touch but not quite, and Andrew stares at him in the glass of the window as he stares at Andrew.

Neil tries to lean into the front of the car to turn the volume down, only for Nicky to smack his hand away.

And before long it seems, they’re home.

\----

As it turns out, Andrew is not the last to arrive. That honour belongs to Aaron, picked up by Kevin three hours later.

When he arrives it’s a similar fanfare, Nicky hugging a clearly exhausted Aaron, asking if he’s proposed yet.

“No, not yet.”

There’s drinking, and fighting, Erik placing peoples presents under the shitty little plastic tree like German Santa. Music playing from somewhere that reminds him of Eden’s. Tension in odd moments, quiet in others, someone knocking a glass over in the kitchen.

There is Neil and Andrew quietly moving upstairs.

“How is it being back here?” Neil asks, everything about him somehow softer in the yellow light of the room.

Andrew doesn’t waste time thinking about it.

“Fine.”

Neil nods, glances back at him, nods again. Sits on the edge of the bed.

Reaches his hand out, not a demand but a question.

Andrew walks closer and puts his hand in his. It’s the only answer he can think of.

Neil rubs his thumb over Andrews, kisses the back of his hand. Looks up at Andrew with those eyes.

“I missed you,” Neil says. There’s no room for shyness or nerves in his voice. It’s just a fact, and it’s one Andrew recognises in the grip of Neil’s hand.

He runs the thumb of his free hand over Neil’s jaw, smudging out the harsh lines of it. Cups his neck. There are curls of auburn hair brushing his fingertips. Neil reaches his head up to kiss what of Andrew’s neck he can reach. Just a soft drag of lips.

And they stay that way for a while.

Until reality calls them back downstairs.

* * *

“Have you proposed yet?”

“No, not yet. Stop asking she’s not even here.”

Aaron stews into his coffee, and Nicky kicks his leg from his end of the couch.

It’s Christmas morning.

When he opened his eyes at 7:00am, he was in a home that wasn’t home but still was all the same. There was a weight lying next to him, a sleep-warm auburn haired dead asleep weight. Mouth still a little bit kiss bitten.

Now, that weight is a walking talking person again, catching a present from the frisbee motion of Kevin’s hand.

He’s not really paying attention to what it is as much as he's paying attention to the action of Neil’s nimble fingers manoeuvring the paper.

Andrew has a scarf, a diet planner, an ice cream subscription, and a simple black coffee tumbler. To keep his drinks hot and his lids unsplit.

(“You can drink your sugar out of it,” Neil told him as he stared at it, felt the sturdiness of it.)

And he only has one thing left to give.

Upstairs, it sits in his suitcase still.

But it can wait.

They eat toast and jam for breakfast, more coffee somehow. They lounge around the house. They take aimless drives around Nicky’s memory lane, from the actual streets of Columbia to the streets of the outskirts of Palmetto, to the door of Wymack and Abby’s.

Neil eats too much because the novelty of this has still not quite worn off after these past years. Nicky drinks too much, Kevin doesn’t drink any more than two glasses of eggnog, and Aaron and Andrew spend ten minutes in the kitchen together.

“So,” Andrew says.

“I am going to propose. Just. Not yet.” Aaron says.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Like you didn’t want to.”

No comment.

Aaron sips his eggnog, slumps back in his chair.

“I am. I want to. I really want to," He says, voice stiff and but eyes unflinching.

“You’re scared,” Andrew replies, because he recognises that look in his brothers eye by now.

“Let’s just. Leave it,” Aaron says and Andrew agrees.

Some things are better left alone. For now.

Except –

“She’ll say yes.”

Aaron’s face changes in a way Andrew doesn’t necessarily recognise. Like he’s just witnessed a real Christmas miracle.

Andrew takes that as his cue and leaves.

\----

“Minyard.”

It’s Wymack of course, settling himself down on the couch next to Andrew.

He was busy picturing Neil sleeping there and staring at the real Neil. Watching Erik follow Nicky around with plastic mistletoe and how happy it clearly makes Nicky. Watching Aaron throw wrapping paper at Kevin as he tries to teach him about his newest Exy play. Watching the surety, the confidence, the power in Kevin’s body that only sometimes used to be there.

“I think we’ve done a good job,” Wymack says.

“Drink your eggnog old man,” Andrew says, and downs the rest of his.

Wymack ignores him. He’s busy watching his Foxes.

\-----

It’s only later, when they’re back in the house and hidden behind closed bedroom doors, that he gives Neil his gift.

It’s wrapped in crimson paper and shimmery golden ribbon.

Neil holds it in his hand like he’s holding a bomb and raises one perfectly shitty eyebrow at him.

Andrew crosses his arms, leaning against the dresser.

“It’s from Renee.”

The eyebrow stays partly raised.

“And me.”

Now Neil opens the present.

And he doesn’t respond.

Not for a minute.

Possibly two.

Two and a half –

“Andrew?”

He can tell Neil didn’t mean to say it like a question. But maybe it’s been a long day for both of them.

He huffs, moves to sit on the bed beside Neil and look down at the gift in his hands, the large square shape of it.

The simple silver frame was Renee. The arrangement within it was her too. But the contents came from everywhere.

Photos.

A collage if he has to be specific.

There’s a photo of Neil and Matt with their arms around each other at impossibly different heights. A photo of Nicky trying to draw on Kevin’s sleeping face with a sharpie while Neil looks on unamused. A photo of Renee, Dan, and Allison with Neil caught in the middle of them all. A photo of Neil and Kevin standing on the court fighting. Photos of all of them. Photos of Andrew and Neil staring at each other at various different locations.

And an image of the old team in the centre of it all.

Neil stares at it for a while.

Then he looks at Andrew for a while.

Then he says –

“Thank you.”

* * *

They fall asleep tangled up together that night. Or at least Neil does.

Andrew has to go back home in six days.

Or, back to his second-home. His half-home. His other-home. His almost-home.

Home is a very nebulous concept and Andrew doesn’t really care enough to think about it anymore.

Eventually, Aaron will propose to his girlfriend and she’ll become his wife and they’ll both become doctors. Eventually, Nicky will propose to Erik or Erik will propose to Nicky and they’ll become husbands and fathers. Eventually, Kevin will stand tall and unopposed as the truest king any court has ever seen. Eventually, Andrew will move to another team at some point, and maybe another. He’ll move to a new second-other-not-quite-home.

At some point Neil will follow.

They’ll make more mistakes, they’ll heal more and suffer more. Things will continue to change.

And then one day he’ll stop having second-other-not-quite homes and just have one.

But he doesn’t need to think about any of that just yet.

For now, he’s going to roll closer to Neil’s sleeping shape and sleeping warmth, and in the morning he’ll kiss him.

For now, he still has six days.


End file.
